Spring has finally come to Paris after the longest winter I’ve ever known since my arrival in the city over twenty years ago. Temperatures, the weathermen and women promise, will soon rise to 70° and tomorrow we’re going to see the sun! Yes, this winter has been bleak, cold and dark, relentlessly so, day after day, and Parisians have behaved accordingly. Already famous (or infamous) for their unfriendliness towards each other and towards strangers, they have outdone themselves this past winter, freezing facial muscles into a permanent frown.
Luckily, to ward off the cold and escape the blues, we can always head underground. There, riding the more than 130 miles of the Parisian metro system, travelling between its more than 300 different stops, we can benefit from sauna-like conditions year-round, while participating in a form of urban theater, complete with surprises, laughter and tears.
For example, about two weeks ago, when temperatures were still hovering around freezing and we were all wrapped up in winter coats, a young man in shirt sleeves stepped into the car and launched into a speech, beginning with the customary “Mesdames, messieurs.” Shuffling our feet, turning away from him, we all closed in upon ourselves, prepared to listen to yet another appeal to our hearts and to our wallets, stiffening up in anticipation of him rattling a cup filled with coins in our face.
But no, he began by assuring us, our loose change did not interest him. His was a different mission. He was asking us to listen, appealing to our hearts, but his message was unique and he soon managed to put a smile on our faces and even got us talking, perfect strangers in the metro carrying on a friendly exchange.
He had entered our car with something to offer, not to sell, he told us, and it was up to us to choose if we were interested or not. He was offering, in fact, himself, which he did in about two minutes, the time it took to travel between two stations before he stepped off at the third.
He told us his age, 28, and his profession—he was trained as an engineer. And I can attest he was a nice-looking, clean-cut young man. Though he did not tell us his nationality, I would say he was from what the French call the Maghreb, Tunisia, Algeria or Morocco, all countries where French is a second language spoken by almost everyone. He spoke it extremely well and quickly got his message across.
He was single, serious and available and what he was looking for was a potential bride, a woman standing or sitting in that stuffy car of the metro interested, like him, in tying the knot. He wanted a wife, a home, a family, and there he was in the flesh, not like on those on-line dating sites, where you never know if what you see is what you get.
All the while he spoke, he smiled, and soon we were all smiling too. And talking. The woman standing next to me expressed her surprise. I commented he looked like a nice young man. Both of us, hitting sixty, were spectators. He was not addressing himself to us, but to some young woman sharing his desires. All she had to do was follow him onto the platform when the train came to its next stop.
And when it did, the doors opened and the young man got off, alone. No woman followed him off the train. No bites, at least not on that ride.
He did, however, brighten our day and lighten our hearts. He surprised us, in the best sense of the term, shaking us out of our commuter lethargy at the end of a long, hard day.
Strangely enough, the very next day, as I was walking down the street where I live, I was attracted to a sign posted on a phone booth (they still exist in Paris, though rarely do I see anyone inside making a call. Most often, phone booths serve as shelters for the homeless, offering protection from rain but not from the cold). Printed in bold letters on the sign were the words CHERCHE FEMME, in other words, “WOMAN WANTED.”
Was this an ad offering work to a cleaning woman, a babysitter, a companion to accompany an elderly person to the market? I was curious so I approached to read the fine print and discovered the ad offered none of the above. It was another offer of marriage, direct and to the point: 42-year-old Czech psychotherapist would like to meet a woman for marriage. Serious offer, children welcome. At the bottom, there was a cell phone number to call.
A few days later, another man stepped on the metro, begging not for money, but for a bride. This time I was less surprised by his plea than by the fact that it was happening again, three times in the same week, three unconventional offers of marriage. I said to myself, this qualifies as an urban trend and on-line dating services should take note. The search for love may be moving away from phone and computer screens and back into the real world.
Now it has been about two weeks since my last spotting, but I am still on the lookout, hoping to further document this trend, which, if sincere, surprises both by its directness and its old-fashioned appeal.
But springtime has arrived and it is natural that “a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of love,” above ground and below. There is even a Facebook page called “Spotted”: dans le métro parisien (in the Parisian metro), with over 20,000 fans. There you can leave a message for that intriguing person you spotted during your commute to work, with hopes of receiving an answer and meeting him or her again.
All in all, Parisians spend a lot of time underground, at this time of year, cut off from the sounds, sights and smells of spring. Luckily for us, everyday we descend into an urban theater, where we can find the best and worst of life, spectators and actors despite ourselves.
For those of you back in Schuylkill County who climb into your car, turn the key, turn up the music and drive, keep your eyes open, don’t shut out the spring. And at stop signs, look carefully in all directions. You never know whose eyes you’re going to meet.
Appeared in The Republican Herald, April 28, 2013
